How Yuki Eiri Kicked the Bucket
by Rose-Divine
Summary: The title is pretty self explanatory. Our favorite writer spends a little too much time on his latest novel.


Disclaimer: Not mine, and I think that that makes us all happy after seeing this piece.

Author's Note: Well. I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this two days ago. I remember being kind of tired and getting upset that this piece wasn't funny the way that I had planned it to be. I didn't even know that I was going to open it up again, let alone post it, but then I realized tonight that I liked the ending in a morbid, sick sort of way. I didn't spend a lot of time on this piece, and it probably shows quite a bit. Warnings: Obvious character death and some very long sentences.

**How Yuki Eiri Kicked the Bucket**

It all started on a Saturday. Yuki had welcomed the morning with make-up sex, a beer, and the first of many cigarettes. Then, ignoring Shuichi's protesting cries, he had locked himself into his office to work on his latest masterpiece.

By noon, he had written fifteen pages, smoked half of a pack of cigarettes, and yelled at Shuichi through the door five times.

By three, he had written thirty pages, smoked another half of a pack, avoided two calls from his editor and one from Tohma, and threatened to throw the brat out of the apartment if he whined at Yuki one more time.

By five, the apartment was Shuichi-free, the phone had been partially smashed, and Yuki was almost out of cigarettes. Judging that it was safe, he left his office to get his remaining eleven cans of beer and find one of the packs of cigarettes that he had hidden away, just in case. Shuichi had started flushing them if he found more of two packs in the house at any given time (Yuki had smoked the other yesterday), and after he had managed to plug the commode, which had forced them to move in with Tohma for the most hellish week in recent memory, Yuki had started being more careful about leaving them around.

Once he was safely back in his office, Yuki drank, and smoked, and wrote. He ignored how the number cans went down as the room got more and more smoky, and he ignored the beeping of his email and the pathetic little noises of the damaged phone.

Shuichi didn't come home that night, but he didn't particularly notice.

Two more days passed in the same way. By the end of the third day, Yuki had exhausted his emergency supplies of alcohol and cigarettes, and he fully admitted that he was starting to smell. While he was in the shower, he missed the ringing of the doorbell.

When Yuki got out, he made a quick trip to the store and then went back to ignoring the phone and his email as he wrote several more chapters.

A week later, Yuki realized that he hadn't smoked in 24 hours, drank beer in 27, heard from Shuichi in 72 (he had finally answered the phone, only to hear the brat whine about some new CD and impromptu tour that K was forcing Bad Luck on), or eaten in 48. However, he was close to the end of his novel, so he didn't pay much attention.

Just a few more short chapters, and it would all be over. He could go and find the brat, no matter where he was, smoke some more, and get drunk. Afterward, or maybe during, they could have sex.

Two weeks later, Shuichi finally came home from touring, worried out of his mind. He didn't get an answer when he knocked (he had lost his key on the day that Yuki had locked himself in his office), so he called Tohma. Tohma came, but there was still no answer from inside the apartment. He was starting to call security when he noticed the smell.

When security managed to get the door open, they found a dying laptop, forty-six beer cans, the remains of over a hundred cigarettes, and one very dead, smelly, and decaying author.

The funeral was held the next week. Two days later, Bad Luck released their newest album, titled "Bright Lights and White Flies", and a month after that Yuki's completed novel was released.

It was a bestseller, and all the fangirls wrote fanfic for it, blatantly ignoring the fact that it had been taken off of a laptop that had previously swarmed with flesh-hungry maggots.

Call it poetic justice, since what they wrote was crap anyway.


End file.
